29. Ours?
I met Dominic at the back of his bar—the kind of place where secrets didn't echo and truth stayed buried under neon lights and cheap whiskey. It was quiet tonight. "I need an update," I said, leaning forward, elbows on the table.
Dom didn't look up from his laptop. "Still nothing."
Nothing.
That word scratched at the back of my skull like a warning. Dominic never came back with nothing. He could dig up information on ghosts if I asked. If there was nothing, it meant whoever broke into Amara's place knew exactly what they were doing—and how to disappear afterward.
It wasn't random or sloppy, it was planned.
"Keep digging," I muttered, my jaw tight. "I want names. Faces. I want to know who the hell thinks they can mess with her and walk away breathing."
Dominic gave a short nod. "Understood."
I left the bar with a headache pounding behind my eyes and her name looping in my head like a prayer I didn't deserve to whisper.
I couldn't stop thinking about her, her eyes, her smile, her lips.
I unlocked my phone and went to check instagram.
She'd posted a story.
I tapped it open.
A selfie. Face mask on. Hair pulled back.
Caption: "I need a rich man who can buy me skincare. ???"
I stared at it, expression flat. Then slowly, I exhaled a soft chuckle.
Cute.
You posted that for me, Swan.
She probably had enough money to buy the entire skincare aisle in every store.
It was a bait.
I quickly text her
Me: You don't need a rich man to buy it for you, Swan. You can get it yourself by the way you're acting.
You don't need to work so hard to get my attention. You already have it.
Also,
I let it hang on purpose.
Because I knew her and she'd be glaring at the screen now, fuming and muttering "Why would he even type 'also' and not finish the damn sentence?"
shes adorable when she was annoyed.
After a pause, I decided to call Clara.
We had exchanged numbers the day I asked her to slip those Religieuse au chocolat and croissants into Amara's locker. The best kind—soft pate à choux filled with dark chocolate cream, topped with glossy ganache. Amara had mentioned them once that she liked it that way.
Back then, Clara raised a brow and said, "You do know bribing her with French pastries doesn't mean she'd forgive you, right?" She added, her face serious. "You need to talk it out. That's how she'll forgive you, Xavier."
I thought sending her pastries, coffee, notes, would work until a man named Lucas knocked some sense into me, literally and figuratively.
I deserved that though.
So now, as I tap her contact, I wasn't sure if she'd even answer.
She picked up on the second ring. "Xavier?" she asks, like she hadn't expected me to ever actually call.
"I need your help again." I said. "It's for Amara."
"You really are obsessed with her, huh?"
I didn't deny it.
"Can you send me her shopping list?" i ask, then i specify, "Her skincare list."
Clara makes a confused noise. "Wait—what? Why?"
Because I know her. She'd never post something like that story without a reason.
And I'd bet anything she had already texted Clara that exact list a few hours before posting it, probably with something like 'If you ever go to Sephora, please grab this for me please please please I'll give you my soul'
"She apparently needs a rich man to buy her stuff." I mutter.
Clara laughs louder this time. "God, she's going to die when she finds out you called me for this."
"She won't." I say, flatly.
"Uh-huh." Clara replies, clearly unconvinced. "Just so you know I'm totally telling her once you two stop pretending you hate each other."
"I don't hate her."
"Yeah. I figured." she says softly, before perking right back up. "Also... what's in it for me?"
I sigh. "Seriously?"
Then, in the most falsely innocent voice I've ever heard, she says, "Tell me something weird about Logan."
My brows knit. "What?"
"You heard me. Tell me something funny, or embarrassing." She says, "You both are besties!"
I stare out the windshield, jaw clenching. "Clara, we are not besties."
"How dare you! Logan would be so hurt!" she gasps, "I'll never ask you for anything again except when I do."
I exhale slowly, resting my elbow against the car door. "Fine," I mutter. "He once ate a whole slice of pepperoni pizza with a fork and knife."
There's a sharp inhale from the other end. "No."
"In public, at a boxing match."
Her voice rises"Nooo."
"And he claimed it was because he 'didn't want greasy fingers.'" I say and she screams with laughter, full and chaotic and completely unbothered.
"Oh my god," she wheezes. "I'm never letting him live that down. Thank you. This-this is gold. Literal gold"
"You're welcome," I deadpan. "Now send the list."
"Done," she chirps, not even pretending to be composed. "Tell your Swan I said hi.. wait, no, don't. She'll know."
I hang up before she can say anything.
She sends the list two minutes later, no questions this time. Just a laughing emoji and a 'you're whipped' follow-up.
She's not wrong.
I glance over the products, half of them I can't even pronounce. The other half look like they're made from crushed diamonds and moon dust. Of course Amara's skincare list would look like this.
Most men would've placed an online order and have it delivered, but I'm not most men.
Cut to fifteen minutes later, and I'm standing dead center in Sephora.
In one hand, I'm holding my phone with a screenshot of the list. In the other... nothing because I haven't moved.
A girl in all black, with winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, approaches. She's smiling like she knows I'm lost. "Hi, sir. Do you need help with something?" she asks, politely.
I hold up my phone, "Yes. I need all of this." She takes the phone from me, scanning the screen with expertly manicured fingers, her eyebrows slowly climb her forehead.
Then she looks up at me. "Like all of this?"
"All." I confirm, with a nod.
Her eyes widen slightly. "That's gonna be... expensive."
"I know."
She tilts her head, lips twitching at the corners. "And I'm guessing this isn't for you?"
I shake my head, "No"
Of course not, unless men also apply skin products?
"Girlfriend?" She asks it casually, but the word lingers too long in the air. I should say yes and that'd make sense.
But girlfriend doesn't feel like the right word.
I just shake my head once. "Someone important."
──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────
I'm finally back at my door—our door. The keys are in my pocket, but I don't use them. I'd rather surprise her especially after two hours of roaming around for skincare.
So I send a message: Also, open the door.
Two minutes pass..
Then the door creaks open, slightly. Enough for her to peek from behind it like she's hiding something.
No smile. No jumping. No kiss.
She's not flinging herself into my arms like Lucas said women do when they're happy. No "Oh my god, you shouldn't have!" Nothing at all.
I raise an eyebrow. "Are you gonna open it all the way? Or do I have to guess what you're hiding back there?" She doesn't say anything to which- "You don't need a rich man to buy you anything, Amara," I say, lifting the Sephora bag like it's proof of something. "You just need me."
She stares. "Well, uhm." Her voice is small.
Still no excitement.
A slow dread starts to sink in.
Was this a mistake? Did I get it wrong?
Maybe she didn't post that for me, or it wasn't meant to be a hint. Maybe it was just a prank or a trend.
Or for some other guy.
I clench my jaw. My grip tightens on the bag I spent nearly two hours on. "Amara," I say, low. "Is this not what you wanted?"
She bit her lip, and then opens the door completely. She is in a hoodie and shorts, with socks and flip flops-
"Gosh what did you do, Amara?" I step in, completely.
The theme of my house is white, gray and golden. Now it's blue and lavender.
Pastel blue.
The living room is covered in blue and lavender throw pillows. There's a baby pink blanket on the couch. My sleek, monochrome coffee table has lavender candles lined up like some sort of spa ritual. There's a soft floral scent in the air.
Pastel blue balloons are tied to the handle of the kitchen cabinet.
Balloons.
Loud, unapologetic, contagious laughter as she braces a hand on the wall, like she physically can't hold it in anymore.
I stare at her and she keeps laughing.
She's beautiful.
I narrow my eyes, shaking the thought from my head. "What exactly did you do?"
She bites her lip again, trying and failing to control the giggles. "R-Redecorating." she says between giggles.
"Well," I say slowly, lifting an eyebrow, "may I know why you did it?"
She stops laughing and flips into serious mode "Well, you see... uh, I posted that story for you," she admits, trying to sound casual. Like I didn't already know. Like that wasn't the reason I walked into Sephora at 5:17 p.m. on a weekday with a screenshot of lipstick shades.
"And I expected you to get it!" she huffs, throwing her hands in the air.
"I did." I tell her, amused.
She gives me a look, equal parts betrayed and exasperated. "Yeah, but you left me hanging! You just sent 'Also.' What does that even mean?"
I raise an eyebrow. "I thought it was direct."
"No!" She sighs. "I thought maybe you didn't get it—and I rushed out, got a bunch of stuff to make a point—and then you show up, actually having gotten the message and bought me everything.
" She gestures vaguely toward the bag and the candles and well my living room "So now I look like an idiot. "
I watch her. The way her lips pout slightly when she's embarrassed. The way her fingers curl into the sleeves of her hoodie and the way she's still standing there like she hasn't completely stolen my entire apartment—and maybe a little bit more.
My heart.
I lean against the wall. "So, what should I have replied instead?"
She perks up. "Something like 'Yes, Ma'am.' You know, straightforward, flirty, the bare minimum."
"Yes, Ma'am?" I repeat, lifting a brow.
She shrugs. "But you probably wouldn't want to ruin your big broody pride by calling me that." She waves me off, turning like she's done with the conversation.
But I catch her wrist gently and lean down, close enough that her breath hitches. "Next time," I murmur, "I'll call you exactly what you want, Ma'am."
"Oh please," she scoffs, flipping her hair off her shoulder like I'm the dramatic one. "I'll believe it when I hear it without the smirk."
And before I can reply, she twirls around and starts picking up the Sephora bags like she didn't just hijack my penthouse with her cottagecore pastel invasion.
I sigh and head to my room. until her footsteps suddenly speed up behind me. "Wait, wait, wait—Xavier, maybe don't!"
I pause at the doorway, turn my head to her. "What did you do?" I narrow my eyes at her.
She stands there, sheepish, pulling her hoodie sleeves over her hands like she's trying to vanish inside them. "It's... not that bad?"
It definitely has to be bad.
I push the door open and stop.
My room. My perfectly structured, cold-blooded haven of order and masculine neutrality- is pink now.
No, not pink—its bubblegum. There's a difference. The pillows are fluffed, there's a plush throw blanket on the bed, candles on the side table, and some godforsaken flower garland above the headboard.
I turn slowly to her. "Change. It. Back."
She gasps, hand to chest like I just insulted her. "Excuse me?"
There even are soft blush pink sheets. Lavender throws. A heart-shaped pillow that says "Nap Queen." Even the curtains are different—flowy and sparkly.
How on earth did she do all this in 2 hours?
She shrinks half a step. "You said make yourself at home."
"I didn't mean colonize my room with bubblegum pink."
She perks up, trying to justify. "It's rosé, actually. And look, doesn't it feel more welcoming now?"
"I don't want warm vibes," I say. "I want my bed back."
"Well," she walks and flops onto the mattress like its her "that bed is gone. This is our bed now."
"Our?"
"And if you don't like it," she adds, pulling the covers dramatically over herself, "the couch is right there in the living room, it even has my blanket. You're welcome."
I stare at her and she smiles sweetly, patting the pillow beside her. "You're lucky I didn't throw in stuffed animals."
"Also, self-defense.. resumes again from tomorrow." I inform her, just to ground us both back to reality.
She groans. "Wait, do we have to go to the gym? Can't we just do it here?"
"We need to go the gym." I say flatly.
"Why?" she pouts, flopping dramatically again.
I raise an eyebrow. "Remember how I set up your barre for ballet practice? Had to clear my gym for that, Swan."
Her lips part. She goes still for a second, the way she always does when I call her that. Her cheeks flush, and I can see the moment she realizes what that meant—how much I had to change, adjust, accommodate. Again.
But that's not the only reason I want to go back to the actual gym. There's another one.
Lucas.
I know that bastard checks the surveillance cams more than he should, I don't blame him. Its his gym, after all. And if he watches it tomorrow—which he will. He'll see us there and I can tell him things are fine, that she's talking to me again.
That I fixed it.
Thanks to the punches he gave me that day.
Even if I don't actually know if she's forgiven me yet.
Suddenly, a pillow flies across the bed and hits me right in the face. "Ugh, I hate you!" she groans, like I did something bad.
God, I'm in love with this woman.
I walk to the couch, sinking into it with a sigh that has no business sounding this satisfied.
She gave my whole damn penthouse a makeover—turned my sanctuary of whites, greys, and golds into lavender, blue and bubblegum pink. No wait.. rosé, as she insisted.
I'm not even mad at her.
Not when I can still hear her laughing from the bedroom. Not when she told me to go sleep on the couch like she owns the place. Not when her scent is all over my sheets—our sheets now, apparently.